


Kid’s Got Charm (And a Nice Toaster)

by radicalrumps



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, Hangover, M/M, just a warning, patricks 16 and petes 21
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4997857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radicalrumps/pseuds/radicalrumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stole a fucking toaster from that poor kid down the street. </p>
<p>Prompt // "you had a party and i got really drunk and stole your toaster, so i showed up the next day to return it and you were really hungover so i made you breakfast"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kid’s Got Charm (And a Nice Toaster)

There’s a sharp, dull pain in Pete’s lower back area. It feel like someone has just been pressing and digging into his ass, and it’s not a good fucking feeling. His head is pounding and he body feels weighted—fuck he needs to stop taking those dares to down 10 shots every time he goes to a stupid house party. Probably should stop the beer pong too, considering he’s shit at it.

Pete jolts up quickly, rubbing the deep sleep from his blood shot eyes. _What the fuck was jabbing him in the back?_ He thought as he clumsily threw his arms behind himself, feeling around for said item. His hands hit a smooth, metal surface with a dull thunk _._  He pulls the item out from under him to see what his drunken ass brought home with him last night; it’s a fucking toaster, why the fuck does he have a toaster? He has a perfectly fine toaster in the kitchen, and this is not that toaster. He fucking stole a toaster from the party he went to late last night.

Holding the bright red appliance in his hands, Pete tries to stand without wobbling. Successfully, he makes it all the way up and begins walking out of the den. He stole a fucking toaster from that poor kid down the street. 

He sits the shiny new toaster down on the counter, and goes to grab a water of bottle. He’s hung over as fuck and feels like shit, but he needs to get the toaster back. I mean, who steals a toaster? Oh right, drunk Pete, that beautiful drunken bastard. He turns back to stare at the glossy red toaster, while taking a quick chug from the bottle. His hand glides down to check his pockets for the old sidekick he keeps with him 24/7. Thankfully it’s there and in good condition. The device says it’s currently 7 fucking o’clock in the morning. Nice. Way too early for anything or anyone to even be functional.

Leaving the toaster sitting in the now rising sun, Pete jogs back up to his to actually slip into some clothes, so he can take that stupid thing back. After throwing on his clothes, he grabs his keys and that bright fucking red toaster off his counter – which, wow, really needs to be cleaned. He should really start helping his mom out around the house. He shakes the thought from his mind and heads out the door, not caring to lock it behind him.

Jumping into his car _(it’s not really his),_ Pete places the toaster down carefully in the passenger seat and cranks his mom’s car. He honestly could just walk but his back hurts from sleeping on the toaster for about 4 hours straight. Poor toaster, poor Pete. Seconds later he pulls into the dude’s driveway. What was his name again — Paul? Parker? Wait no, it’s Patrick, yeah that’s it. He pulls into Patrick’s driveway and parks next to an old, clunky car. Quickly grabbing the toaster, Pete slings his car door open and makes his way up to the door. 

Pete lays a couple of knocks onto the navy blue door and steps back. He’s starting to get a little anxious after a couple of seconds but finally the door creaks open slightly. “Hello, what do you need?” a small, sore voice drifts out of the cracked door. Poor little dude, he’s totally hung over.

“Hey, I’m Pete — I live a little bit down the road.” He says tilting slightly forward trying to catch a glance through the dark crack.

“Nice to meet you Pete, but why are you here?” Patrick asks clearly wanting to go back inside his house that currently has every blind shut and get more precious sleep.

“Oh, well, really funny story! I kind of stole your toaster -- I mean, I didn’t mean to. Nice party last night though. Very fun, very fun.” His words trail off and the door creaks open a little more showing a short, somewhat chubby kid. He’s like 16, and clearly last night was his first house party. He has got dark circles under his blood shot eyes, and those eyes are currently staring at Pete in a way that says ‘what the fuck do you want. Go away. I feel like absolute shit and you are not helping, asshole’. Patrick’s strawberry blond hair is going every direction, kind of like one of those birds that fluff up their feathers when they are attracting a mate. Yeah, those. It’s kind of adorable.

After sitting in deafening silence for a few moments, sun soaking the back of Pete’s neck, he finally begins to speak up. “So, Patrick -- that’s your name right -- well, I feel bad for stealing your toaster, and I was hoping if you would let me come and make you breakfast... Maybe?" 

Patrick lets out a tiny breath, looking slightly frighten and confused. "Yeah, totally, let the old dude who stole my toaster into my house and let him cook my breakfast. Yeah, no, not happening.” He begins closing the door but Pete quickly slips his foot in to stop it from closing. “Hey, I’m not old! I’m only 21, and I didn’t steal your stupid toaster on purpose. What do you expect to happen at a house party?" The toaster slips slightly from under his arm.

Pete smiles brightly and puts on his best puppy dog eyes — everyone has a weakness for his puppy dog eyes. Patrick finally gives in and opens the door fully as he turns around, walking into a different room. Pete makes his way into the house, carefully shutting the door behind him, and follows Patrick into the other room. The house is fairly normal, average size living room with an average size flat-screen. There’s a guitar resting up against the wall in the corner. 

"So where’s the kitchen? I want to get the motherfucking breakfast party started.” Pete says bounding over to a Patrick that is currently trying to straighten up the room. The younger boy picks up a stack of red solo cups and begins walking toward another archway located next to the TV. Pete takes that as the kitchen is where Patrick is going, and he follows quickly trailing behind with that shiny, red toaster under his arm.

***

Pete politely asks Patrick where his utensils are and got straight to work -- of course, after putting the toaster down in its rightful spot. After a couple of minutes of Pete cracking eggs and humming off tune songs, Patrick decided it’s time to go lay back down and let Pete come get him when breakfast is done.

Pete is enjoying himself, mixing eggs sloppily and dancing around the medium sized kitchen. He didn’t even noticed the younger boy leave, too busy with trying his best to make breakfast just like his mom used to. But soon enough he does noticed and he’s a little disappointed, maybe Pete wanted to spend some time with the cute kid – too bad Patrick was way too young.  Pete decides he really needs Patrick’s help, how does Patrick even like his eggs?

“’Trick! Can you come back in here I’m lonely and I don’t know how you like your eggs.” Pete shouts out and then continues to stir the eggs in the bowl. Hopefully Patrick likes scrambled eggs.

A little later Patrick trudges into the kitchen, not looking too happy. “Pete, I was trying to get more sleep.” He mumbles out while hoping up onto a stool by the counter.

“I’m sorry little dude, I just got lonely. Do you have a radio or somethin’ we can listen to?” Pete asks while searching through the cabinets for a skillet, clumsily tossing pots and pans around causing quite some noise. “Bottom right and yeah, let me go find it.” The younger boy has to shout a little over the noise, standing, he exits the room again, leaving Pete alone.

Now Pete has two options: fuck shit up and snoop or wait for the pretty, young red head to return and begin making the food. What to do, what to do. Fucking snoop, of course, do you seriously think that wouldn’t happen. So, Pete does what he does best and sneaks around the kitchen, observing the surroundings, taking in the – very evident – family orientated home.

Pete’s up on his tippy toes, trying to look at what is on top of the fridge when Patrick trudges in with a small stereo in hand and a binder full of CDs under his arm. “What the fuck are you doing?” Patrick murmurs as he sits the stuff on the aisle.

Pete lowers himself and shrugs. “What do you think? Fucking snooping, dude,” He strides over to the cabinets once more and squats down, he totally doesn’t almost lose balance and fall. “Which one was it again? I forgot already.”

“You sure are a fucking turd, aren’t you? Bottom right.” The younger huffs out as he once again takes his place on the bar stool that stands in front of the aisle. _Holy shit, this kid just called me a fucking turd,_ Pete’s mind buzzes as he grabs the skillet and stands (he actually didn’t almost fall this time. Amazingly.) “Wait, wait. Did you just – just call me a fucking turd? Here I thought you were sixteen, but _clearly,_ you’re fucking eight.” He sits the skillet onto the stove, letting out a braying laugh. When he glimpses over to the younger boy his face is a light shade of rosy red, it’s absolutely adorable, makes the world seem brilliant.

“Hey, fuck you, you came over here to apologize to me and make me breakfast. _Not_ make fun of me.” Pete’s still snickering when he goes to grab the carton of eggs from the fridge, his stomach is starting to hurt. He still has no idea what all he’s going to make; he could go all out and make a huge feast for both of them, but he’s honestly too lazy and too hung over for that. Modest eggs and some toast should do.

“Whatever, how do you like your eggs, Patty?” Pete asks, approaching the aisle, face to face with bird hair Patrick. This kid has the ugliest hair cut Pete has seen but he’s still adorable. The mottled, patchy sideburns do not help either, but there’s just something about him that makes Pete wish he wasn’t twenty one, because whatever Pete is feeling right now is one-hundred percent, illegal.

Patrick scrunches his nose and makes a thoughtful noise. “Sunny side up. Please?” Pete’s feeling weak kneed, but he still smiles radiantly and hollers out a ‘coming right up, sweet cheeks!’ before turning toward the oven.

***

It doesn’t take long to make the food and Pete makes himself some nice scrambled eggs covered in cheese. He’s not a master chef -- defiantly couldn’t win a cooking show -- but he’s damn sure these are the finest eggs anyone has ever made in _the whole fucking universe_. Patrick hasn’t agreed or disagreed, he’s just sitting there pouring way too much salt on the plate for two eggs. Pete is honestly a little offended, the younger boy could be appreciative. _So sorry that I’m not Guy Fieri, mother fucker_. Pete’s brain hums and he chuckles to himself. That catches Patrick’s attention.

 

“What’s so funny?” Patrick is staring at Pete across the aisle with big, blue innocent eyes. Pete’s heart picks up and his palms get clammy, how can a fucking dorky teenager -- with stupid thin sideburns and glasses so nerdy, that Seymour Krelborn is calling -- make him feel like this. So, tingly and giddy, like a fucking child in middle school.

“Nothing, nothing. I was just thinking about a joke, bud.” He flaps his hand around, dismissing whatever is going on. The younger boy narrows his eyes, blue-green irises barely visible, then he shrugs and continues eating.

After a few minutes, Pete finishes up, while Patrick is still eating his fucking eggs. “Savoring them, huh?” Pete asks as he turns and sits the dirty plate in the sink, it’s full of filthy silverware, plates, and bowls. He wasn’t raised by an animal, so, he starts running the water to clean up.

“Yeah you’re pretty good at cooking. We should do this again, y’know. Maybe, you can cook dinner next time though.” Pete hears the fork drop to the plate with a clank and the soft thud of Patrick hoping off the stool. He’s kind of frozen, though, tense from what Patrick just said. Was that a friendly invite or something more, because Pete is not the best at picking up when someone is hitting on him.

Patrick drops his plate into the sink and pats Pete on the shoulder, then he leaves the room. A huge breath leaks from the older man’s mouth, he shakes himself and continues to clean the dishes. There’s not too many but the ones that are there are caked with old food, unknown substances, and something that looks like shit.

***

Pete finishes up fairly fast and makes his way out of the kitchen to find Patrick. He isn’t in the living room, but a small note is placed on the coffee table.

_Sorry for leaving, but I need my sleep before my parents get back. Thanks for making me breakfast, you’re really sweet. And, yes, what I said was me asking for a date, even though you are an old creepy guy who steals toasters. Anyways, see you soon._

_Xx, Patrick_

_XXX-XXX – (my number if you didn’t guess.)_

Pete laughs and folds the note up, shoves it into his pants pocket and heads out the door.

Kid’s got charm and a nice toaster.  

**Author's Note:**

> aayyy lmao my first fic on ao3  
> critiques and whatever are welcome 
> 
> thanks to TheMLGOtaku for beta'ing this or whatever. ily lynne.


End file.
